


Give Me a Kiss, and To That Kiss a Score

by khasael



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, First Kiss, M/M, Mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 09:07:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khasael/pseuds/khasael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire stares up at the sprig of mistletoe hanging over his head as if it will disappear in a second, just a figment of his imagination.</p><p>It's Bahorel's voice, lifted over the general merriment, which brings Grantaire back to earth: "Another set of victims is claimed!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give Me a Kiss, and To That Kiss a Score

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MajaLi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajaLi/gifts).



> This is the direct result of MajaLi's text one morning that read simply: _What would happen if Enjolras and Grantaire were under a mistletoe? Help, this is vital information._
> 
> Sorry I didn't get to post it by Christmas--Real Life and complications with access to appropriate technology stood in the way. Much thanks to uniquepov for the immediate/last-minute beta. Any remaining mistakes are mine! Also, title taken from a Robert Herrick poem.

Though it's late in the evening, the party is still going strong when time comes to a halt.

At least, that's what it feels like happens, from Grantaire's point of view. People are laughing, drinking, talking, eating, dancing, and otherwise enjoying the festivities at their little Christmas party, but in his attempts to procure a glass of mulled wine, Grantaire pauses in the doorway to the kitchen, moving to the side to let Enjolras exit empty-handed. Grantaire makes a sweeping gesture with his arm and motions Enjolras through, unable to keep from grinning. Everyone's in a good mood tonight; the students are done with finals, and the rest of them are enjoying the weekend before Christmas on a night free from their usual responsibilities. In a testament to the miracles of the holiday season, Enjolras just gives a half-laugh, straightens an imaginary vest, and moves as if to strut through the doorway.

They're stopped in the middle of the ridiculous charade by a voice booming over everything else, just a simple word that brings the room up short in an instant: "Wait!"

Grantaire turns his attention to the back of the room along with everyone else. Bahorel is sitting on the arm of one of the sofas, his arm extended at the ceiling above Grantaire's head. Following the pointing finger, Grantaire looks up and notices it just a moment before Enjolras does. 

And then he nearly gapes.

Grantaire stares up at the sprig of mistletoe hanging over his head as if it will disappear in a second, just a figment of his imagination. It shouldn't do that—Bossuet and Joly got caught there not an hour ago, and Jehan and Courfeyrac had spent the better part of fifteen minutes camped out underneath it, before they'd even had the excuse of alcohol lowering their inhibitions. Even Cosette and Eponine had paused for the briefest of kisses before Marius dashed over and kissed them both. Grantaire had witnessed all three exchanges, which should be proof enough that it exists. Yet somehow, he's managed to forget it entirely.

It's Bahorel's voice, lifted over the general merriment, which brings Grantaire back to earth: "Another set of victims is claimed!"

Grins and laughter break out as everyone looks up at the sprig of mistletoe hung in the doorway that separates the living area from the kitchen here in Cosette's rather large apartment, and Courfeyrac laughs, looking at Enjolras. "You know what that means. No one's exempt!"

For one heart-twisting moment, Enjolras looks ready to argue. But before he can open his mouth, there's a chorus of counter-arguments to anything he may be about to voice:

"It's tradition."  
"Man up and take the plunge."  
"None of this half-assed shit, either! Give us something real."

Enjolras shoots a look back over his shoulder at that last comment, met by Bahorel's absolutely unapologetic grin. He turns back around to face Grantaire, who catches the thumbs-up from Bahorel that is in no way meant to be subtle. Grantaire is certain he should be embarrassed by this, and perhaps he will be later, when he's not consumed by the heady mix of mulled wine, warmth from the fireplace, and the cheers of those he calls his friends. It's likely he'll feel little but shame and dull, aching want at the memory of this brief moment with Enjolras, the smallest taste of everything he's wanted for so long, but knows he will never have, will never be good enough for.

Enjolas fixes Grantaire with his gaze, even and steady and intense in a way that makes Grantaire's stomach feel as if it's filled with metaphorical butterflies. He can only look back, any usual swagger and bravado evaporated under the stare of those blue eyes. He was wrong before, in thinking the world had stopped spinning once he had noticed where they were standing. It is now, pinned by that gaze, that time has truly halted. 

Grantaire doesn't move, his body torn between excitement and terror in this moment of anticipation. He tries to tell himself this moment is nothing in the grand scheme of his life, where very little truly matters anyway. This is nothing more than a temporary exchange, a mere blip on the timeline that is his existence. Enjolras looks as if he means to follow through, which means that in a matter of one full second—and perhaps less—this will be over, and they'll both get on with their lives as they have always done, linked in some peculiar way, but undoubtedly separate.

Enjolras takes in a deep breath, lets it out loudly, and leans forward with a determined expression. Grantaire closes his eyes and stands as still as possible, lest his desires get the better of him. He rarely limits himself to moderation, rarely restricts what wants to flow free, but here, in the middle of nearly everyone they know, is not the place to let that drive out of its bonds. A quick brush of lips and it's done, he knows that.

He doesn't know everything.

Lips meet his, tense and firm, yet tentatively applied. Grantaire purses his in response, the most cursory of movements designed only to indicate his participation and reciprocation in this display of tradition. That's supposed to be it, the dance of ritual done, the mouth against his removed quickly, its duty fulfilled. He can feel Enjolras pull back, but before Grantaire can open his eyes and do something to regain his hold of the situation—bow, perhaps—the other set of lips presses forward again, this time softer, pliant. And against all odds, they linger for just a moment. Grantaire barely has time to register this, most certainly doesn't have time to react, when Enjolras pulls back fully. 

When Grantaire opens his eyes, it's to find Enjolras looking back at him with a face that's uncharacteristically inquisitive and unsure. It's the face of a man who isn't entirely sure he's made the right decision, who wants even the smallest of reassurances in regard to his chosen course of action. It's an expression that looks foreign on that face, with its rosy cheeks framed by blond curls, blue eyes bright beneath long lashes. He looks more childlike and innocent than Grantaire has ever seen him, a far cry from the impassioned, hard man he's seen so often in the time they've known each other.

Completely unable to find words that might reassure without sounding like a taunt or tease, Grantaire just holds that gaze and smiles softly. The words that do finally come to him escape before he can clamp down on them, bite them in half to kill them before they spring to life: "Thank you."

It's barely a whisper, so soft Enjolras himself might not have heard him, but the barely perceptible curious tilt to his head indicates he was able to read the words on Grantaire's lips, if not actually hear them. And unbelievably, he smiles back, just the slightest bit.

Grantaire has no idea how long that moment lasts. He only knows it's broken by someone behind him clearing his throat, and then he hears Jehan's voice, clear, yet soft around the edges: "You know, one tradition states the couple under the mistletoe is to exchange one kiss per berry." Somewhere nearby, someone who might be Feuilly voices agreement.

Both Grantaire and Enjolras look up above their heads. This is real mistletoe purchased by Cosette this morning at the local farmer's market, not some piece of plastic, so Grantaire expects perhaps one additional berry to be seen amongst the leaves. He's really not given the sprig of leaves more than a casual glance throughout the night. So when he counts six full white berries, he counts again. 

"It's six," Combeferre says after a moment, when both men are still staring upwards. "It doesn't take a rocket scientist to count that high."

"Just a med student, apparently," Marius says, the smirk obvious in his voice. "Come on, let's get on with it."

"Aren't you about the voice of the people?" Grantaire finally manages, a bit of his usual sarcastic tone reappearing, when Enjolras only raises one eyebrow at him, as if to ask 'well?' "There appears to be a request voiced here."

"Fuck requests, the people demand it!" Bahorel calls from his corner of the room. "They also demand you get on with it, as Marius said, since you're blocking the way to the kitchen, and some of us would like another drink!"

"As if you need another," Enjolras mutters, and Grantaire can't help but smirk, hearing the sentiment usually directed at him directed elsewhere. "One more beer away from a brawl over something-or-other." He sighs and looks back at Grantaire, his mind obviously made up. "Six," he says firmly. 

"Five left to go," Grantaire agrees, ignoring that technically, the first might have been two. He's willing to take this thing the universe has given him, whether intended as a gift or a punishment, if he actually believed in any sort of intent or Fate. He can hate himself later, but for now, he has five more kisses to take, and he is not about to squander the opportunity.

Enjolras nods and leans in again, pressing his lips against Grantaire's once more. It's neither the hard, dry peck of the first, nor the pliant version that had followed immediately after, but somewhere in between. It does, however, last just a moment longer than the one before it. As it ends, Grantaire hears Bahorel's voice again, clear over the softly-playing orchestral Christmas music: "That's two!"

"And this is three," Grantaire retorts, rolling his eyes before leaning in and pressing his own lips against Enjolras's. He's gentle about it, trying very hard to keep this from being awkward when this is just a tease, a mockery of what he's kept locked up as an impossible fantasy. And if he overstays his welcome in this kiss for just a brief moment, who besides perhaps Enjolras can really blame him?

"Four," Enjolras says to the room a few seconds later, a considering look crossing his face before he leans forward and kisses Grantaire. This time, he parts his lips just a fraction, and it's no fault of Grantaire's hopeful imagination that Enjolras seems to take much longer than before to pull away, licking his lips and looking at Grantaire in a way he's never imagined. It's halfway to a challenge, with just a tinge of embarrassment, and Grantaire can't help but look at him in disbelief, wide-eyed in surprise. Grantaire raises his eyebrows and gets another of those tentative smiles in response, and his breath catches for a moment.

"Five!" someone prompts after another moment where they do nothing more than stare at each other, and Grantaire takes a deep breath before tilting his head slightly to one side, sighing softly when Enjolras parts his lips as their mouths meet. He gathers any courage he can find within him and lightly runs the tip of his tongue over Enjolras's bottom lip, struck nearly stupid when Enjolras takes a half-step forward into the kiss, one of his hands coming up to rest softly against Grantaire's back. Before either of them breaks the kiss, Enjolras slides the tip of his own tongue into Grantaire's mouth. The technique is anything but expert, but Grantaire finds it all the more intoxicating and intimate for that fact. 

Grantaire pulls back just enough to look at Enjolras fully, see the flush high in his cheeks, note the intensely bright blue of his eyes, before he leans back in without waiting for someone to utter the final number, brushing a loose curl from in front of Enjolras's left eye and letting his hand slide down to rest along cheek and jaw line. Enjolras presses forward into the kiss, granting Grantaire full access as he opens his mouth, letting their tongues slide against each other as they deepen the kiss.

He tastes like mulled cider, sweet and spicy while being warm and comforting, and Grantaire can't get enough. It's better than being drunk, more dizzying than the strongest liquor. The feel of Enjolras—of his skin warm against Grantaire's hand, of his body pressed against Grantaire's own, of the hand against his back, holding him firmly in place—warms him hotter than the most potent wine. It's as if his blood is replaced by sunlight, burning its way through him as it illuminates every tiny detail of being. For a brief moment, Grantaire is both willing to believe in anything at all in the world, and unable to consider believing in anything other than Enjolras, including the fact of his own existence.

For all his rumored inexperience, all his moments of near-prissy purity, Enjolras is evidently dedicated to giving this a good, solid go. He's breathing hard, pressing close to Grantaire the longer they kiss, and he is nothing if not increasingly sure. There's something to be said for that, for his devotion and drive and energy, and Grantaire finally breaks the kiss with a soft, gasping laugh when Enjolras takes Grantaire's lower lip between his teeth and tugs gently.

"Color me surprised," he whispers against Enjolras's mouth, stealing another short kiss as he tries to catch his breath.

"Six. And one extra."

Both Enjolras and Grantaire turn their heads to look at Combeferre, who's looking back at them with eyebrows raised. Enjolras looks like he's struggling hard to come up with something to say, some explanation for his behavior, when Jehan comes up behind him and shoves lightly, sending Enjolras further into Grantaire's arms and the both of them slightly out of the kitchen doorway. "Move and let the man get himself another gingerbread person," Courfeyrac admonishes from behind Jehan, the smile on his face plain. "He's going to be unhappy if Marius eats them all." Jehan pushes his way past the two men, tugging Courfeyrac behind him. Combeferre follows in their wake. "Come on," Grantaire hears Courfeyrac say from within the kitchen. "Cosette hid another plate of them for just this situation."

Grantaire turns back to Enjolras, completely unsure what to say now. He's saved from embarrassing himself and ruining whatever has just happened by Enjolras's hand clapping gently over his mouth. He shakes his head. "Just shut up," he says, his smile soft, just the tinge of a smirk underneath it. "You argue nearly every goddamned thing and over-reason everything else. Just for once, shut the hell up."

Laughing, Grantaire pulls Enjolras's hand down. "You know my arguments only strengthen your resolve and help you flesh out your own reasoning."

Enjorlas rolls his eyes, but still looks fond. "I said, shut up."

"Make me," Grantaire teases, his voice low.

"Always baiting," Enjolras sighs, but it doesn't stop him from pressing his lips to Grantaire's.

"Effective technique," Grantaire allows several moments later. "I wonder if you'll find others to—"

He's cut off by an elbow to the side from Bahorel. The glare he throws does nothing to remove the smirk on the man's face. "So. You'll both be coming out to the Café Musain for New Year's with the rest of us," Bahorel says, taking a pull from his beer bottle. "Because I'm sure we could charge—or at least get tips—for that kind of show again, come the stroke of midnight. Or stroke of anything else, if you know what I mean." With that, he slides past them, reaching up and pulling down the sprig of mistletoe as he enters the kitchen.

"Stroke of—" Enjolras starts, eyes wide and cheeks going slightly more pink.

"Ignore him," Grantaire laughs. "And help me plan some way to embarrass _him_ , come New Year's, oh Apollo mine."

Enjolras shakes his head, but takes Grantaire's hand and leads him to the abandoned couch. "Tell me you'll stop with the ridiculous nicknames now."

Grantaire squeezes the hand holding his. "Never."


End file.
